


Of Broken Bottles and Tears Unshed

by SugarsweetRomantic



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Fantasy, Mermaid Lucy, Mythology References, Water Deities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 01:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17889152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarsweetRomantic/pseuds/SugarsweetRomantic
Summary: Garcia Flynn knows, rationally, that one shouldn't talk to the creatures of the sea.This one, though...





	Of Broken Bottles and Tears Unshed

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by misscrazywriter321’s idea of a Garcy Little Mermaid AU. It turned out a bit angstier than Disney, and relying more on Greek mythology than Danish, but here we are. ;)

“That's a mighty-fine ship you've got there.” 

He must be hallucinating. There's no other way, Garcia Flynn muses as he stares out over the darkness of the ocean's waves in the middle of the night. There's no such thing as ghosts. There's no such thing as ghosts. There's no such thing as…

“Ghosts? No. But I'm no ghost.”

Did he say that out loud? A chuckle.

“No, sailor, you didn't, but you don't have to speak for the sea to hear your fear.”

“Where are you?” he asks out loud, fully aware that if Denise hears him, she'll have him keelhauled.

“It's not that easy, sailor.”

“Tell me your name. Please.” He leans out further, and a gentle gust of wind nearly sends him plummeting into the water.

“Not yet.” The serene vocalizations that woke him from slumber return, though they are slowly weakening in volume. He must be dreaming. Connor’s home-brewn grog is getting to his head, obviously. Mermaids don't exist.

 

The following morning, Denise calls him into her hut.

“Captain,” he offers her as a greeting, even though he stopped reporting to her months ago. 

“I've heard you were sleepwalking.”

“Have you?” He attempts to act surprised, but the woman has decades of experience in grilling her crew.

“Don't make me tie you down, Flynn. You wouldn't be the first. We just got you out of gaol, don't let the ocean take you next.” Her voice is stern, but her eyes show compassion. Empathy. She knows what the water took from him. He knows what it has taken from her. It's a silent understanding. 

“I know what I'm doing, Denise,” he tells her, perhaps more to convince himself than the commander on the other end of the desk.

 

The singing wakes him occasionally, as he drifts between dream and reality, but the owner of the voice never shows their face. He always asks, but never begs. He made that mistake the first night and he won't make it again. Flynn refuses to offer his body to the waves without a fight. The frequency with which he hears the voice decreases, and he begins to believe it was never there at all.

 

They reach American shores, and it's finally time to rest. The crew can eat, drink, and they can find the touch and intimacy they're so starved for after months of water and salty air. He knows Denise has a woman waiting for her, and so he tells her to go see her.

“Are you absolutely certain?” the captain asks him. Her hand lands on his upper arm, but he shrugs it off.

“Go see Michelle. She must have missed you.” He doesn't add: 'So you can finally mourn together,’ but he knows that she knows. Losing children is what connects them, after all. The sea is a cruel mistress.

 

He sits down on damp wood, feet dangling in the water, his shoes forgotten by the start of the docks. 

“Don't you have a girl to get to?” He can't see a face, but the rhythm of the waves against his legs changes just slightly. There's a gentle pull on his limbs. It's not strong enough to pull him in, but it's most definitely there.

“No,” he replies, voicing even though the creature, who- or whatever it is, has already proven not to need him to speak. “I don't.” Laughter. It sounds almost nervous, unsure. “What?”

“Isn't that what all sailors do? They get to shore and go straight to those houses where the men are intoxicated and the women undress.” 

“Most of them do, yes,” he confirms. There's a youth to the voice he hadn't recognised before. Not that of a child, but a certain naivety.

“But not you?”

“But not me.”

“Why?” He sighs. He knows he shouldn't even be considering continuing the conversation for his own good, but he doesn't have much left to lose.

“Because I had a woman. A wife. And a child.”

“Why don't you go see them then?” How he wishes the creature would show him its face, if it even has one. 

“Because you took them from me.” He can't hide the venom in his voice. The sea is deadly silent even as the waves roll onto the shore with muted volume. He nearly gets up to leave when suddenly, there's a reply.

“I may be a daughter of the Sea, heir of Poseidon, but that doesn't mean I agree with everything she does.” The voice trembles. “I promise you that I've never killed a man, or a woman, or a child.”

“Can I trust you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

 

Once they are back at sea, he continues to have quiet conversations with her at night. When there are others nearby, he talks to her in thoughts, but when they are alone, he speaks out loud. “I like your voice,” she tells him. So he does. 

 

It's nearly nightfall when storm clouds start showing themselves on the horizon, and Denise commands the ship to be steered away from them. 

“Whitmore!” the lookout suddenly screams. Flynn looks at Denise and sees the panic visibly rise in her chest. The  _ Mothership _ is state-of-the-art. The  _ Lifeboat _ is not. They're trapped between Emma Whitmore and the storm. Both will kill them the moment they get the chance.

He hears singing.

“I'll keep you safe. I promise.”

He walks over to Denise.

“Do you trust me?” he asks. 

“No,” she admits, and though blunt, he appreciates the honesty. “But if you've got an idea, I'd love to hear it.”

“Steer us into the storm,” he replies. “The Mothership is too large; she doesn't have the manoeuvrability that we do. I know we'll make it.” 

“You're insane.”

“Do you have a better idea?” She opens her mouth to reply, but chooses to close it again. Shaking her head, she walks over to Rufus and tells him to set course for the storm. As lightning lights up the sky, Flynn murmurs: “Don't lie to me now.”

“Not to you.” 

 

Waves crash against the wood of the ship with the force of cannonballs, but the creature keeps her word. They all survive.

 

A week passes without singing, and they're back on land - home, if he could ever call any physical location that. When he does hear her, he's immediately awake and nearly runs outside to reach the shore.

“I need your help.” Her voice is tiny and weak, nothing like the amused, confident silk he's used to.

“How? What can I do?”

A young woman swims towards the surface. Her face is twisted in pain. Though he chest is bare, all he can look at is the blood coming from her arm and the shrapnel digging into her skin.

“You have doctors in town, don't you?”

 

He races back to the small house he still owns and grabs an old dress of Lorena's. He doesn't know how he'll explain the tail to Noah, but she'll be dressed at the very least. When he returns to the docks, however, she's managed to lift herself onto the wood. And she has legs.

“How did you…” he starts, shaking his head. Carefully helping her into the garment, he asks: “Can you walk? What happened?”

“I didn't see a mine,” she explains. “I don't know. I've never walked before.” He decides to lift her onto his back like one would a child. Her arms are strong but her legs are weak, and she seems to be having trouble making them do her bidding. 

 

When Noah asks her how she got hurt, she tells him she was swimming when she felt it. Flynn knows the naval mines in the vicinity, and they are moored. Luckily, the doctor, who seems unwilling to even think of setting a foot on the docks, accepts her story.

As he helps her back outside over an hour later, the kind doctor warns them: “No swimming for at least three weeks, Miss!” Her face turns pale, but she nods.

 

“Tell me your name?” he asks her back home. She's on his bed, legs pulled up to her chest, nursing the glass of whiskey he has given her for the pain. 

“You still haven't told me yours either,” she retorts. He shouldn't be doing this; he really shouldn't. 

“Garcia Flynn.” She owns him now, he supposes.

“Leucothea,” she responds. “But...call me Lucy.”

 

Lucy stays with him. He was worried about providing for her on his budget, but she's content with porridge and oats. She's not too pleased with him whenever he eats fish. He switches to eggs for her.

 

It's on the fifth day that he notices how pale she is. On the seventh, she can barely stand. On the tenth, she's having trouble breathing. 

“Lucy, what's going on?” he asks her, helping her sit up so she can eat. She bites on her bottom lip. “Look at me, please?”

“My mother, Ceto…” she whispers, lips struggling around each consonant. “She saw me with you. She...I have to return to her.”

“She cursed you,” he deduces. Silently, she nods. 

 

He carefully gathers her in his arms, pressing his lips against her temple before carrying her towards the shore. The moment he lowers her into the crashing waves, she shrieks in pain.

“Lucy!” he calls out, reaching for her, but she shakes her head as tears threaten to spill onto her cheeks.

“It's okay,” she promises, trembling in front of him. “She's angry, that's all.” He watches helplessly as her legs transform into an elegant tail once again. “Come see me every once in a while, please?” she begs. 

“Always.”

 

He's never been one to break a promise, so he visits the docks at night, every night, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. The first few times he hears nothing but whispered nothings, his Lucy too terrified to show herself. As the weeks pass, she regains her strength, and with it, her confidence. She smiles, she giggles, she's relaxed, but whenever he has to leave her to sleep, the terror in her eyes returns.

“Come swim with me,” she suggests one night when he's complaining about the sweltering heat. “You don't have to go under; just let the water cool you down.” Nodding, he strips down to his undergarments and takes a tentative step into the ocean. 

The instant both of his feet are submerged, it's like an invisible rope coils around his ankles, and he is pulled under water. The salt burns in his throat. He can hear Lucy scream, her hands grasping onto him, trying to pull him up.

“Let him go! I'll join you, I promise, just let him live! Mother, please!” Another voice enters his mind as his vision begins to blur. 

“Stay away from my daughter.” He's choking. He's drowning. He's fighting, but he can't hold on much longer. Lucy screams again. 

“She's the one good thing in my life,” he croaks against a wall of water.

The world goes dark.

 

Someone is shaking him. A hand slaps his cheek. Coughing, he can't stop coughing. 

“Breathe, Flynn, damn it.”

Denise.

He opens his eyes. The captain is staring at him. A small crowd has gathered around them.

Lucy's gone.

 

He's at the shore every night.

Lucy's gone.

 

A woman stands on the rocks, silently watching the water. Sighing, she whispers: “Please reveal yourself. I won't hurt you.” A voice she's never heard before resounds in her brain: “Why would I trust you?”

“Because I know you love him.” It's a bold statement. The waves crash against her legs. This could cost her her life.

“I won't hurt you either,” the voice replies, and the sea parts to reveal a familiar face.

“Lucy.” Denise smiles. “I knew you weren't human.”

“Why are you here, Captain Christopher?”

“Why have you left him?”

“It's better this way.”

 

Denise visits her again, and again.

Until she is finally able to tell her: “I know how to free you.” 

 

The  _ Lifeboat  _ idles between two islands for days until she finally catches the  _ Mothership's  _ attention. Whitmore is coming for them with a speed that makes even the most experienced crew members’ knees weaken. The ocean is so, so angry. Denise closes her eyes. For the love of the Gods, please let this work. 

If it doesn't, at least she'll see her children again. But Michelle, oh, Michelle, let her return to her.

 

Lucy races as quick as the currents will carry her. 

 

“Now!” 

The mermaid lets her voice resound around her, stunning woman and creature. Ceto appears, thrust out of the water, genuine shock on her features. Whitmore's greedy cry can be heard miles away. A loud shot, then the water turns red. The night has never looked this dark, with Selene offering a helping hand in obscuring the assisted matricide. As the ocean’s motions come to a complete halt, Denise holds her breath.

Then, with the most deafening roar the planet has ever witnessed, the water rises around the  _ Mothership _ and drags her down into its deepest depths.

Denise exhales. 

 

During the day, Lucy swims along with the ship. Heir of Poseidon, she returns the balance to what it once was. The ebb and flow of the tides has returned. The ocean takes. She always will, but she returns so much more. This time, she cradles and soothes, calms and cools. 

At night, she climbs onto the  _ Lifeboat _ and lets a strong embrace cradle her, whispering sweet nothings until they both succumb to sleep.

 

The one thing he could never hate, in his arms at last.


End file.
